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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24479002">Burden Of Knowledge (Power of Fear)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineisa/pseuds/catherineisa'>catherineisa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Blacklist (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>"It's his head in a box" to the tune of "Dick In A Box", Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Attempted assassination, Dialogue Heavy, Exposition Heavy, F/M, Gen, Hospitals, Investigation, Loss, M/M, Repression, Ressler works in Data Management after Julian dies, Tanida's head, bad ways to deal with grief, medically induced coma, parallels between Aram and Ressler, poor treatment of flash drives</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:07:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,732</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24479002</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineisa/pseuds/catherineisa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd needed the endless walking to force his mind to focus on the tile and linoleum floors, which all had light pink and blue designs that looked like they hadn't been updated in decades. It was cathartic. He walked through the Oak and Fern units, taking no notice of anyone that walked by him, forcing himself not to walk so fast. Walking too fast meant he wasn't as focused on the details, and that led to him thinking about things that weren't good for him.</p><p>Mostly work. People he'd lost.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aram Mojtabai &amp; Donald Ressler, Aram Mojtabai/Samar Navabi, Audrey Bidwell/Donald Ressler, Julian Gale/Donald Ressler, Raymond Reddington &amp; Donald Ressler, Raymond Reddington/Donald Ressler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>I'm not sure if the characterization is right in this but it is a bit different. Ressler isn't quite shaped by his encounters with Reddington. Reddington isn't shaped by his encounters with Ressler. Nor is he a “known” criminal. No one can pin anything on him and he's a donor for most organizations, so they don't really want to. He has free reign, except somebody has tried to assassinate him. I don't have any medical books or wifi so unless I decide to fact check this later it'll be questionably medical. I always research these things first. Sometimes but not always a person in a coma can hear what's going on around them, recall things that were said and remember things that happened around them. I'm going with that for this story, but do keep in mind it is fiction I don't live in an apartment complex either. So for reference Idk. Uh. Laundry room in the basement.</strong><br/>I went back and did a little bit of research. It seems fine enough.<br/><strong>Room 7609 is a reference to Duran Duran. I couldn't help myself.</strong></p><p> </p><p> </p><p><strong>Hope you enjoy. Comments are welcome and appreciated! Taking submissions at <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/catherineisasupplemental">Supplemental. read the post outlining submissions||||| </a></strong> <a href="https://catherineisasupplemental.tumblr.com/post/619520176986144769/still-taking-submissions-i-always-will-be-most">here</a></p><p> </p><p>  <strong>   Name change as of 6/2/2020      </strong></p><p> </p><p> </p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ressler gets to the hospital at 6:34. There's nearly no one there. The halls are empty except bone tired nurses and doctors who wave at him from behind their charts and papers.</p><p>He likes the quiet. He gets to the right hall and overhears a couple of doctors discussing Reddington's condition. They murmur that he should be around soon since some of the more critical wounds are starting to heal better and the blood transfusion are sending his vitamin and iron count up.</p><p> </p><p>He gets to room 7609 and finds that Mable is changing the IV bag, humming some kind of Top 40 drivel about needing a boyfriend. He thinks maybe it's not the best time to come back. Mable sees him trying to duck out and calls out to him. “Oh hey honey. I'm almost done.” He awkwardly shuffles, trying to get out of her way as she maneuvers around the bed. “Sooo.” She draws it out. “What did you guys talk about?” All her words seem to rail end each other. “There's a good taco place on third. I told him to try it.” Sarcasm oozes of his words. She doesn't seem to notice. “Ooh I'll have to try that!” She nearly squeals. Ressler is glad he doesn't have his sidearm on him.</p><p>Finally she leaves and he exhales. “Oh man. Poor you. You can't just get up and walk away. Does she talk to you when she helps you? Oh yeah stupid question. Can't speak.”</p><p> </p><p>I have to go to work in an hour but I can uh..” He wavers. “Keep you company.”</p><p> </p><p>“I'm not sure if they told you. You're getting better, they're thinking of diverting your meds and letting you wake up on your own. That's good.” He tries to think of things to say. “I overheard them talking in the hall. They didn't tell me.”</p><p> </p><p>The doctor walks in and introduces himself to Ressler as Spalding Stark. Ressler can't help but think it's an odd name. The introduction should be futile though. Ressler knows every name of the doctors in the building. This one doesn't work here. “I see you around here a lot, are you a volunteer? Or do you know Mr. Reddington personally?” He explains his hospital walking distraction technique, and Nurse Mable's idea.</p><p>“Ahh. I haven't known her long but she seems to be a bit, off kilter. I personally don't like her much.” He shakes his head. Ressler can't help but agree. “But there are test studies that show that human interaction could speed up certain healing processes and bring up the patients mentality.”</p><p> </p><p>Ressler can't help but ask. “Are you new? I haven't seen you around.”</p><p> </p><p>The doctor shakes his head. “No. I'm Mr. Reddington's personal physician. He's funding some of my research, it's the least I could do. I just wish he was more careful with himself.” He say that less at Ressler and more towards Reddington, leaning heavily on his cane.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>He starts visiting every day and then several weeks down the line he gets stuck at work and then forced into a stakeout that lasts for five days. He's by himself and it's excruciating. He thinks about everything he did wrong. How he could've helped Audrey more and maybe she wouldn't have been hit by that car, if he'd just gotten groceries the day before. Or if he'd been closer to Julian he wouldn't have gotten trapped, and Julian wouldn't have gotten shot.</p><p>He thinks about it too much and opens the door to vomit. He gets pictures of a major drug deal and arrests four known pushers. He doesn't feel any better though.</p><p>He's given congratulatory pats on the back and told to go home. He goes to the hospital. He get's to the room and finds it's being cleared out. Mable is stripping the bed of it's sheets and Stark is packing up to leave.</p><p>Mable throws the sheets in a nearby trash receptacle and pats him on the back. “We didn't see for for a couple weeks.” He mumbles about work. She nods and says something along the lines of 'I hear ya' but drawn out and annoying.</p><p>“He woke up. He's not fully healed but he's stable enough to have been woken up. He checked himself out.”</p><p> </p><p>Ressler nods.</p><p> </p><p>He goes home and goes to sleep. Thinking about he'll probably never see the man again. It bothers him. He can't place why.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Hospitals used to give him the creeps, but after a while he can't help but notice some of the soothing things about hospitals. It was all of the things that used to get under his skin. The smell, the death. The fact that even though there were people dying, no one seemed outwardly bothered by it. They always reserved their tears for closed doors and family. It gave them dead eyes and a tiredness they couldn't shake. He couldn't help but avert his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Donald had gotten over his fear of hospitals a long time ago, but that didn't mean he didn't avert his gaze when mourners pulled themselves by him, a bone tired air about them.</p><p>He always came to the hospital when he couldn't sleep. When the guilt gnawed through his melatonin.</p><p>He'd come to find comfort in silence, walking the empty corridors endlessly, finding solice in it. It's a larger hospital, but he's well acquainted with most of the staff. He had to explain himself a million or more times before they became comfortable with him.</p><p> </p><p>His frequent work visits had been the thing to assure them he wasn't a creep. They saw the care he placed into questioning victims in suspects. Each with different tone.</p><p> </p><p>He'd needed the endless walking to force his mind to focus on the tile and linoleum floors, which all had light pink and blue designs that looked like they hadn't been updated in decades. It was cathartic. He walked through the Oak and Fern units, taking no notice of anyone that walked by him, forcing himself not to walk so fast. Walking too fast meant he wasn't as focused on the details, and that led to him thinking about things that weren't good for him.</p><p>Mostly work. People he'd lost.</p><p> </p><p>It was Monday. A relatively quiet day. He'd passed through Pine no trouble, now he was walking through Maple but one of the nurses was talking to him suddenly, it's jarring and she has her hand on his arm. He tries to remember how to communicate like a normal person.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi Donnie.” She's a younger woman, twenty eight, maybe thirty. She's kind of pretty, he can admit that much. He doesn't recognize her though. “I've heard about you.” She waggles her finger in his face nearly 'booping' his nose. He stays silent but listens intently to the words she says. It doesn't matter how pretty she is though, she makes him uncomfortable.</p><p> </p><p>“Insomnia brought on my stress? I've got just the thing for you. Oh I'm Nurse Mable by the way. Mable in Maple. How cheery!” She holds out her hand to shake and when he keeps his hands by his side she drags him by his forearm, he not enthused, but he's not fighting her, At this point he'll do anything to sleep. He hope it doesn't mean admission though.</p><p>She finally lets go of him after walking the the last door in the Maple wing. It's not really a wing, but he doesn't know how to describe them otherwise. Several mourners huddle outside the rooms, not really crying, huffing into tissues and handkerchiefs.</p><p> </p><p>The woman deposits him outside of a door. Room 7609. He shakes his head and starts to back up. Waving his hands to say no, she just grabs them and holds them up for a second. “If you don't like it, I'll leave you alone, but you have to try it. It's odd but it's helped several people in case studies. Well the patients.” She looks past him thoughtfully, pursing her lips before coming back to him. Nodding happily.</p><p>“It'll help him and it might help you. Okay?”</p><p>He nods, defeated.</p><p> </p><p>“Now if Mr. Reddington was awake, he'd be talking. He's a very social man. He got shot about a month ago, got pretty bad and they had to induce a coma to help the healing process along. Their looking at his progress to see if they can wake him up yet. I have the feeling he's lonely though, that's where you come in.” He gets the impression that she might be crazy, or maybe just too hopeful. Either way he's a bit creeped out.</p><p>“He's a social butterfly, he needs someone, you!” She points at him with a flourish. “There's no hurt in trying it. Plus I just know that Mr. Reddiebear is lonely. He's always talking to someone. That bodyguard of his- The hot one?- Oh you don't know you that is.</p><p> </p><p>Well he's getting fluffier everyday as well.” He not sure of what that means until she makes a face and pats his belly meaningfully. He hates the phrasing, and the fact that she would mention it to someone, especially someone who doesn't know the man, He pegs her as a woman with boundary issues. It's undignified and he hopes for the man's sake he can't hear her.</p><p> </p><p>“What the hell am I supposed to do?” His tone is supposed to be harsh, to show her that he doesn't much like it, but he just sounds exhausted, and not using his voice for so long has given it a croaky texture. His mouth is dry.</p><p> </p><p>Finally she leaves. He isn't quite comfortable with the notion of talking to the man. Nurse Mable cheerily informs him that his brain activity shows the possibility of him being able to hear everything around him.</p><p> </p><p>He looks closely at the man. Taking in all of the details. Not speaking. He's afraid to. The man can possibly hear him after all. It all feels so terribly wrong. Like he's overstepping, If the nurse didn't drag him in here he definitely would be. He wonders the validity of her statements. If he can actually hear him.</p><p> </p><p>He looks into the man's face. His face is somewhat obscured by the respirator that's in his throat. It's a thinner model but it still does a fair amount to cover the bottom half of his face. He pulls up a chair and continues to discern the man's features. He has longer eyelashes, and a smallish square nose. He has fuller, puffier cheeks but it's not unattractive. A defined chin. Ressler gives up on cataloging his features soon after. No point of it if he can't see the man's eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello?” He hisses with regret as soon as he says it, but the heart rate spikes for a second. He watches the monitor pulse and wonders if it's a wacky coincidence. So he tries again.</p><p> </p><p>“Hello?” The monitor spikes again. He thinks he sees eyelids flutter but in a medically induced coma, he wonders if that's even possible. He looks over to the table that is probably supposed to serve as a nightstand and notices a pair of black glasses, slightly horn rimmed. His hair is a darker blond and splayed out against the pillowcase. His hairline is receding but it doesn't effect him. He's handsome.</p><p> </p><p>He sits back in the chair. Yawning, but not really approaching the possibility of sleep.</p><p> </p><p>“I am.” He falters. It still feels weird.</p><p> </p><p>“I don't know why I'm doing this to be quite honest. She said it'd help. You or me I'm not quite sure.” He shuffles in the small chair, trying to get comfortable.</p><p>“They might pull me off of desk duty, not that I'm hurrying into active duty. But I got recertified to carry my sidearm for the first time since Julian died...” He falters, thinking about Julian is a hard step forward that he hadn't wanted to take.</p><p> </p><p>“I passed.”</p><p> </p><p>Having Julian die just six months after Audrey's passing felt like a sign, but Ressler had never been one to listen to things like that. Felt like nonsense. Felt like he was meant to be alone.</p><p> </p><p>He tries to say something, anything to change the subject. It's somehow harder when he's the only one to carry the conversation.</p><p> </p><p>“I have to go to work in an hour, but I guess I could kill time here.” He clears his throat.</p><p>There's a pause and Ressler idiotically realizes he's waiting for the other man to speak.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yeah. I guess you aren't really going to be the most talkative right now.” He secretly hopes the man can't really hear him and both spikes are just flukes.</p><p>“I am Donald Ressler.” He winces. He must sound stupid.</p><p> </p><p>“You know what? I'm not quite sure you can hear me. So I'm just going to” He pauses, unsure. “Talk.”</p><p> </p><p>“Not the most talkative person. Though. You're not going to get much better, I don't think. So you probably don't care.”</p><p> </p><p>He talks about work, home, and anything else he can think of.</p><p>He talks to the man in very much the same stilted manner for about thirty minutes before Mable comes back. She's carrying blue plastic sticks with foam on the tips.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry dearie. I'm here to brush his teeth. He's very particular about hygiene.” He doesn't much like being called 'dearie' but he's definitely not going to piss her off by telling her that.</p><p> </p><p>“Mr. Reddington has made very important donations to the hospital. He's our top benefactor.”</p><p>She pokes around for a moment before carefully moving the respirator. She brushes and Ressler looks at his watch. He curses. Jumping up, he nearly pulls the too-small chair with him.</p><p>“I've got to go to work. I'm going to be late if I don't go now.”</p><p>She nods at him. “Well he'll be here later, I'm sure.” He's struck by the fact that she's not being sarcastic at all. No sleep. He's pretty much used to running on empty though. He may be an FBI agent but lately it's been more desk than chase. He always thought that he'd hate being chained to a desk. Well not really chained, more like leashed. He gets more paperwork done than anyone in the office and even with the cloud of exhaustion over him it's precise. He never writes in ink other than black. He found out quick that that's a surefire way to piss someone off. He doesn't need the citation. He's still being punished for something he did the previous year. So maybe he is chained to the desk.</p><p>It takes him twenty minutes to get to work. He doesn't go over the speed limit once.</p><p> </p><p>Work is boring. He gets off shift and goes home, collapsing on his bed. He barely gets his shoes off and unbuttons his shirt before letting sleep claim him. He plops down on the bed. He doesn't bother fighting it to take his pants off, just in case it goes away. It doesn't matter how tired he is, if he strays for too long, it goes away.</p><p> </p><p>He wakes up tangled in the blankets sheet untucked and pulled over him. He shoves them off and stares blankly at the ceiling, thinking about Audrey and Julian. The two greatest loves of his life. He feels tears well up in his eyes and his vision gets blurry and he's forced to blink the tears away. They stream down his face and fall into the bedsheets, He covers his face with his arm but it serves only to make his face humid. He uses his sheets as a tissue for his tears before jumping up on the balls of his feet and yanking all of the coverings off the bed and throwing them in the hamper. First the sheet then the comforters then the pillowcases. He looks over at his clock and sees that it's Tuesday.</p><p>He might as well do laundry.</p><p>He grabs a pop up hamper from the closet and shoved all of the essential clothes into it, making sure to leave room for the bed dressings. Just enough for spare.</p><p>When he gets down to the laundry room one of his neighbors is folding her laundry. He waves weakly. He didn't think he'd have to see anyone. Not that he doesn't like Doris, he does. It's just, it's been a while. He'd talked to her when he was getting over Audrey's death and then several months later he'd told her he'd been dating his partner from work. Not quite over Audrey, but he'd loved Julian and the man had had his own baggage, they'd understood eachother.</p><p>The last time he'd talked to her Julian had just died and he was catatonic on top of the dryer with his arms wrapped around his legs. It'd been hard.</p><p> </p><p>He tries to give her a smile but it's weak too, he's just thankful he'd gotten some sleep.<strike> Except it was more than some he'd slept for nearly eleven hours. </strike></p><p> </p><p>She nods at him, still folding her laundry.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey.” His voice is gravelly, in a not so sexy way.</p><p> </p><p>“How you doing kid?” He winces at being called kid and she laughs gaily in her fragile old woman tone. It makes him smirk slightly.</p><p>“I've been better.” He shrugs.</p><p>She elbows him playfully. “Definitely been worse huh?” She throws her thumb back toward the dryer.</p><p>His lips screw into a frown.</p><p>“Oh hey kid. I'm not judging. When my husband died in Vietnam? If I could've reached, I would've been on top of the fridge.” He exhales, relief flooding his bones. “Plus you lost more than I did.” She holds her hands up as if surrendering. “Not that loss is really quantitative.”</p><p>He nods slowly.</p><p> </p><p>“What have you been up to anyway?” She tries to fold a skirt and ends up just chucking it haphazardly into the basket.</p><p> </p><p>“Not much. To be honest. I met someone. Although I'm not sure if it counts as meeting.” His face screws up in confusion and she smacks him lightly in the chest.</p><p>“What the hell does that mean Donnie?” He shrugs.</p><p>“He's in a coma. I was walking through like I normally do, and a nurse pulls me aside, who was quite frankly annoyingly cheery, but anyway she pulls me in to “Talk” to him, I'm not quite sure. Some Raymond Reddington.”</p><p>She holds a shirt to her chest, as if cradling it. “Sounds familiar. Like I saw it on a bench or something.” She gestures with the shirt.</p><p>“Hmm yeah. The nurse said he was their top donor. Got shot.”</p><p>She stares into the basket at her messily folded and chucked clothes. “My lucky stars. I miss Harold, He loved laundry. He said it was like dancing. Man loved to dance.” She's whispering now and Ressler hopes that someday he can talk about, or even think about them in a musing manner and not get misty.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe the mist is how you heal. Let it overtake you.</p><p>He decides to go to the hospital before work.</p><p> </p><p>It's only 5:54.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ressler can't help but find out as much as he can about Raymond Reddington. He doesn't do any of his actual work, and ends up having to stay late and rectify his mistake. He gets distracted again and by two he decides to just stay.</p><p> </p><p>It's the next morning when he wakes up on his desk with the office data manager leaning over him.</p><p>He wipes the drool from his mouth and flinches as he sees the man. He glances at the clock. Two hours before he's supposed to be at work. He tries his best to look awake. David Sampson is a serious man, he's tight lipped and not well like among the office. He does good work though. Still believes in the system after all the years he worked for it.</p><p> </p><p>The man's voice is lowered to a whisper. As if he's sharing a secret.</p><p>“Whatever business you have with Raymond Reddington? Drop it.”</p><p>He's tired and his eyes are drooping but the statement catches him off guard. He may be tired but the man now has his full attention.</p><p>“Why?” He breathes heavily and rubs the sand from his eyes.</p><p>David comes in, closing the door behind him. He pulls a folder out from his arm.</p><p>“He's dangerous. I don't have a lot of proof but.”He scatters a whole but of pictures over the desk . Startling Ressler somewhat.</p><p>“Wait, how'd you even know I was looking into him?”The man looks at him like he's stupid.</p><p>“Data manager. I also work I have to make sure peoples computers work for this level. It's a remote program. ”Ressler thinks that's creepy but he does work for the government after all.</p><p>Ressler shakes his head, obviously. He gestures for the man to continue.</p><p>“This man is dangerous. He's killed people. There's never any proof or evidence though. I think he has a cleaner. I found a trace of a woman, the only name I could find though was Mr. Kaplan. Still. Somebody is either killing them for him, or making sure there's no trace.”</p><p>He looks at some of the pictures. They're photos of Reddington, all different. Some are scrawled with notes.</p><p>“His service record says meritorious service, but I don't believe it.”</p><p>That piques Ressler's interest. “Meritorious service? Where?” He's not indulging Samson's apparent obsession, he just wants to know more about the mystery man.</p><p> </p><p>“Raymond Reddington attended the United States Naval Academy, graduating at the top of his class , and was being groomed for admiral. He dropped off the map in 1991 and reappeared in 1998, in a couple years he becomes an elite, donating to organizations to keep them quiet. Get this though. All of the files that could be related to Reddington are designated SCI7. It's classified out the ass.”</p><p> </p><p>Ressler has to admit that it sounds coherent but it lacks tangible evidence. All he has is people Reddington knew that died. Ressler has tons of those. He doesn't dwell on the thoughts.</p><p>“Keep them quiet about what? You have his partial history and not all of the facts. How long have you been looking into this?”</p><p>The man starts collecting his scribbled photos and straightens indignantly. "Five years. There are so many files that nearly nobody has access to. That are put at a high designation. That's level fifteen shit." He backs up slightly.</p><p>“You'll see. I'll prove it to you. I am going to wipe him from your inquiry history though. For your safety.”</p><p>Ressler can't help but shrug. He doesn't really know what to think about the 'facts' but he doesn't really fear for his life like Sampson seems to think he should. He humors the man. “Thank you.” His shoulders visibly slouch, like he's no longer trying to prove himself. He points at Ressler and nearly drops some of his files. There's a pause as he gathers himself and goes to exit, bashing quite forcefully into the door. In a small voice he says. “I forgot I shut that. Pardon me.”</p><p> </p><p>Ressler can't help but be more curious about the man, but now he knows that he can't look for digital records. He wonders what Sampson meant when he said 'I'll prove it to you.' He doesn't ponder on it for long as he gets his share of work for the day, possibly the week. He's only interrupted when a man knocks lightly on his door two hours later. Ressler tells him he can enter and he immediately holds his hand out to shake. Ressler wears his confusion like a badge. Until the man introduces himself.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Harold Cooper. Assistant Director for Counter-Terrorism.”There's no mistaking it now, Harold Cooper is in his office.</p><p>He can't help but think he's done something wrong. He can't quite tell the tone of the meeting.</p><p>“You are Donald Ressler, Correct?”Ressler just nods. Words escape him.</p><p>“You've been requested to head a case involving a prominent business figure. He was going to the airport to attend to some business when someone tried to assassinate him.”</p><p>“Why me?” Busy day, first he finds out the comatose man ''might'' be a ruthless killer and second someone requests him for a case. One that he knows nothing about. Next to nothing.</p><p>“He wouldn't say. Just that he wanted you to spearhead it. I've collected resources for you to join the case, but just know. Because of the high profile nature of the case, it's all under lock and key.”</p><p>Classified?</p><p>Ressler doesn't speak. He's mulling it over in his head. It's obviously not his own choice to make as to whether he'll be on the case. It's been made. For him, without him.</p><p>It doesn't bother him so much, as long as he doesn't have to sit alone in his car or a warehouse for another five days. It had been successful, but for him the silence was detrimental.</p><p>Cooper explains that the man wants to meet him. He doesn't say who 'the man' is though and Ressler grows increasingly frustrated.</p><p>He tries to weasel the information out of the man but it doesn't work. Cooper just tells him to grab any essentials but to leave his phone and anything that could be tracked. He takes off his watch and takes the cash out of his wallet, setting the items neatly in his right desk drawer, under some sticky notes he forgot he had. He makes a mental note to unwrap them later.</p><p>Cooper guides him to a vehicle in the garage. There's an agent in the drivers seat and Cooper instructs him to get in the back.</p><p>Once the vehicle starts moving Cooper starts to explain some things to him. Not much but it's a start.</p><p>“He didn't want me to say anything about him. He wanted you to make first impressions based on him. To introduce himself.” He gestures with his hands. Ressler notices that the man doesn't have his sidearm with him, he wonders if it's a gesture of peace. He dismisses the notion.</p><p>“He has a bit of a flair for the dramatic, even though he just got shot. He still hasn't told me how he knows you or vice versa.” The man narrows his eyes with suspicion, before waving his hand dismissively.</p><p>“After working with him for this long I've learned to trust him. Even if some of his methods are unorthodox.”The man seems lost in thought for a moment. He shakes out of it, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.</p><p>There's a lull and looks out the window and recognizes the old industrial district, mostly abandoned now it was a breeding ground for the most disturbing crimes.</p><p>“We're here. Keep your head down.”The man turns away from the window and ducks his head, Ressler takes it as a cue to do the same. Darkness falls over them and he pulls his head up. They're in some kind of warehouse.</p><p>“DC Metro Sorting Facility US Postal. Saved from demolition after 9/11.”</p><p>“A black site?” He'd been to black sites before. There was something different about this one though. He looks around, taking in the details. It's the upkeep. He's never been in a black site that didn't look like it desperately needed to be cleaned. He'd also never seen one so locked down. There are at least seven layers of security. Possibly more.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He finally comes out of the security onto an almost empty floor. There's no sign of Cooper and he tries to think back to when he lost sight of him. He looks around, trying to find any sign of the man. There's no sign of him but there are various badges trying to look busy, all exhibiting signs of curiosity, avoiding his gaze diligently. Still pretending to work. He's turned to face them. Trying to get a clue as to what he could possibly be doing here. He's startled into turning around when someone clears their throat behind him.</p><p> </p><p>He comes faces to face with a familiar man. He doesn't quite know what to do. He'd thought it was a job. Maybe it was but all of the things Cooper had said now clicked into place in his head.</p><p> </p><p>The man in front of him is Raymond Reddington. The man from the hospital.</p><p>He's wearing a very nicely tailored three piece, and the first thing Ressler notices is that he's shaved his head. Ressler notes that he liked the longer look better. The longish dirty blond hair has been cropped short and the man's face isn't obscured by a respirator. He's standing to the left a little, seemingly trying to conceal the fact that he's in pain.</p><p> </p><p>The man seems to be sizing him up and he can't help but shuffle his feet and fiddle with his hands. He's not looking away from the man's face though.</p><p> </p><p>“Let's go somewhere where no one can bend an ear. Shall we?” He leads Ressler to a mostly empty room with a sink and a vending machine, as well as a very seventies looking table and chair set. He takes his hat off and sets it in the middle of the table.</p><p>Reddington winces as he sits down. Ressler sits across from him and clasps his hands on the table. Trying to kill the urge to help the man. He admonishes himself, for wanting to help a man he knows next to nothing about, and for forcing himself not to help a man who is visibly in pain.</p><p>Reddington matches him, putting his hands on the table, weaving his fingers together.</p><p>“So. They tell me that you were there with me. In my “ He tries to figure out the right phrasing.</p><p>“Incapacitation.”He nods. Ressler darts his eyes around the room. There's something charming about the man's voice, but also very off putting, like he's not saying something.</p><p>“Yes. I didn't mean to intrude, I was.”</p><p>“Lonely.” Ressler gapes at the man. He wonders if it's that obvious. He'd once paid for a date from one of those services, he burns with shame remembering the experience.</p><p>Reddington chuckles. “Red as a tomato. I'm the one they call Red and here you are.”He'd tried to imagine what the man's smile would look like if he'd have woken up, but nothing comes close to seeing the real thing. True joy touches his eyes for a moment before he flinches an drops it.</p><p>“Moved too far too fast. Stark told me not to. Damn it. Agh. He almost loaned me one of his canes. I should have thanked him for that.”</p><p>He adjusts his vest, careful not to jolt anything. “A gentleman always thanks the people that help him.”</p><p>He meets eyes with Ressler again. “I should thank you then. I remember snippets. Little bits of clarity. Probably why I craved tacos when I woke up. Comes pretty close to the Navajo tacos” He makes an appreciative noise. it's like a rumble in his throat.</p><p> </p><p>“Wait. Is that why I'm here? Because I talked to you?” Ressler is incredulous.</p><p>Reddington laughs again. Full body laugh that has him leaning on the table. Gasping. </p><p>“Hmm no. If it was that easy I would've hired that annoying nurse. She'd probably talk through an apocalypse. The Mr. Reddiebear thing was just.” He makes a face and chuckles awkwardly. His expression is unsettled, disgusted. In equal parts.</p><p>Ressler hums in agreement. Suddenly Reddington gets serious.</p><p>“To answer your question? The one from the hospital room? She did talk to me throughout the time she helped me. All of it being superficial and droll.” He unclasps his hands and runs them the length of the table. Not breaking eye contact. “But you? You were honest. I heard everything. It's coming back in chunks, but I still heard everything.”</p><p>He feels like this was what went unsaid. What unsettled him before is that he didn't know. Now he does, that calms him down a fraction but he still feels like they aren't on the level with each other.</p><p> </p><p>“You looked into me.” It's not a question and Ressler mulls it over. He had, but how could the man have possibly known.<br/>He exhales a sharp breath. “SC17.”</p><p>Reddington cocks his head, not in curiosity but amusement. “You wouldn't have been able to look into those files, so what connection did you find between them and me?”</p><p>There's something disarming about the man. He can't place his finger on it.</p><p>“I didn't. I mean not me. Someone in my office. He heard I was looking into you.”</p><p>Reddington nods. He seems to be making some kind of mental note.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cooper finally explains that he's been chosen to find the person that tried to assassinate Reddington. He also explains what Raymond Reddington does and why. All the while Reddington himself is talking to a very tall man that looks familiar to Ressler but he can't place. It won't be until he hears the man's accented voice that he recalls he shadowed him at the hospital. Dembe Zuma.</p><p> </p><p>“In 1991 Raymond Reddington was chosen to become one of the candidates for admiralty. He was being vetted when he went undercover on an unsanctioned operation in Russia for a different agency. While he was in Russia, a spy leaked his file and he was forced to out himself as a “double agent” He burned his contact and found a new one. Starting a new undercover mission.”</p><p>The man's eyes dart to Reddington who's still talking to Dembe.</p><p>“While he was undercover the second time. His wife and two daughters were murdered. On Christmas Eve. He'd risked his own life to see them and spend Christmas with them and he found them dead instead.”</p><p>Ressler notes that he should tell Sampson that. Cooper continues.</p><p>“He went undercover again. We lost track of him for some time, but all of this is classified. Top level designation, only the people who work here, the sitting presidents and their top advisors know about this.</p><p>You will work to figure out who shot Reddington and then if it goes well, you'll get a raise along with a promotion. You'll work here.”</p><p>Ressler is still curious about Reddington's history. His role in all of it.</p><p>“Tell me more about Reddington.”</p><p>Cooper sighs heavily, leaning back.</p><p>“He became a Concierge Of Crime to elite criminals. If he wasn't working for us like he does, he'd be America's number one most wanted. The government uses his services as a distraction for their own mistakes. I don't agree with it but it's, just what they do.”</p><p>Ressler's eyebrows crinkle and he thinks about the implication. “Like what? When?”</p><p>“Remember the bridge bombing? It was used to distract reporter from investigating a nuclear deal that capsized. The arms deal that set off those protests? Just a few examples. They also use him to keep tabs on high profile criminals. To arrest the ones that they feel are out of control. Doing something dangerous. Their arrests sometimes serve as the distraction. Let Americans feel patriotic while politicians do their business unhindered.”</p><p> </p><p>“How long has this been going on?”</p><p> </p><p>“Originally The Blacklist served only as a way to keep tabs on criminals, but Robert Diaz has changed that. It's his messes and political blunders that get covered most of the time.”</p><p> </p><p>Ressler balks. He feels nauseous. He looks over at Reddington. Still talking to Dembe. He's got his hand on the man's forearm and he's laughing at something.</p><p> </p><p>He's not sure how to think about the situation or what to think.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Reddington find him later in the docking area. It's a warehouse type garage area with vents running across the ceiling. Ressler has a cigarette and he's dragging it for dear life. He's shaking.</p><p>He'd quit smoking years ago, but the stress of the situation got to be too much and he bummed on off of one of the agents on the floor.</p><p> </p><p>“You smoke? Funny. I would've thought you'd be against that.” He's ruminating on the thought of Ressler smoking.</p><p>“What, do you smoke?”</p><p>“Sometimes, Cigars mostly. Cigarettes though? Maybe in another life.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He stomps the cigarette out on the floor and picks it up. He doesn't really want to be in the building anymore, let alone around Reddington. He needs information though.</p><p> </p><p>“Why do you do this?” He gestures with the spent cigarette. “What do you benefit from it?”</p><p> </p><p>“At first. I was serving my country, and that was enough. Then I came home to find my family.”</p><p>He falters, there's something different about his whole demeanor.</p><p>“I ran out of gas. I was so excited to get home, I didn't even bother to look. My head was just... I ran out of gas. I wanted to see them, so bad. I. It was Christmas Eve. I... pulled off to the side of the road. Seemed like it'd been snowing for days. No traffic. No cars to come help. Just me and a car full of gifts. I grabbed a handful of them, I figured we could walk back and get the rest the next day. They wouldn't care, it would be a funny story later about how daddy was so excited to get home that he forgot to get gas. I grabbed a couple. One for each of them, Naomi, my wife, and my daughters, Jennifer and Elizabeth. And then, finally... I got there. I walked... I walked through the door. And there was... just blood. All I saw was blood. All there was was blood. I can... I still smell the blood, imagine it.”</p><p> </p><p>He clasps his hands together and that's when Ressler realizes the man is shaking. His body is propped up against the concrete wall and he's rubbing his hands together slowly to keep them from shaking.</p><p> </p><p>“I know they think they're taking advantage of me but there's nothing they can force me to do. They probably think they have ways to but I make my own rules. What do I benefit from it?”</p><p>He scoffs, back still pressed up against the wall.</p><p>“I can do whatever I want go wherever I want. Do whatever I like. I've seen and done unthinkable things but I know that the United States government won't ever prosecute me. I'm sitting in the closet with their skeletons.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>With that Reddington walks away. Leaving Ressler to stew in his thoughts.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He goes home. All of his stuff is still at work but it doesn't bother him so much. He needs to think about the events of the day and distractions are going to make things harder.</p><p> </p><p>He checks his mail and pulls out a large stack of junk mail and one thick envelope, he doesn't take it in enough to realize it's important and he sets it on the side table near the door.</p><p> </p><p>He wanders for a while before going back to work. Only a couple hours had passed at the black site and even with all the time he spent wandering, he still has several hours left on his shift. He checks his watch, 9:47.</p><p> </p><p>He groans. He doesn't really want to go to work, more specifically, he doesn't want to see David Sampson, not with the knowledge he now has, not when he's torn on what to think about the man. Sampson was a quiet man, but now Ressler knew he was also a paranoid man who had somehow set his periphery on Donald.</p><p> </p><p>He steps onto the floor he works on and doesn't immediately see the man, he exhales with relief. Maybe he's gone to the bathroom.</p><p> </p><p>He gets into his office, finally and sees another envelope on his desk. It's thinner than the one at his house. It has a different script as well, it's more rushed. He shrugs, grabbing a letter opener and slicing the side of the letter. He pulls out the paper and finds it's a letter from Sampson. It reads oddly but Ressler doesn't have his full attention on it. He's distracted by thoughts of Reddington as he breezes through the letter. It's fairly short and very messy.</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>I've decided to give up on my investigation. I realize now that you were right, I have no proof. I've also decided after much thought to go on a vacation. A much needed one. Maybe to the Caribbean or a cruise, something lazy. Maybe I'll find someone, like you found Julian. </b>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>You should go see Julian again. It would be good for you. Visit your special place together. </b>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Don't know when I'll see you again or if I will, who know maybe I'll find someone. </b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b>David Sampson. </b></span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't think about it too much. Maybe Sampson snapped. Gave up. Five years and he got nowhere. Ressler thinks shortly about if he himself went on vacation, but he couldn't picture it. Not without Audrey or Julian. They were the ones to tear him away from work whenever there was a vacation. Moreso Audrey than Julian.</p><p>He does wonder why Sampson would say something like that when he knows that Julian is dead. He'd worked with the man, he'd gone to his funeral.</p><p> </p><p>He gets to work trying to figure out who could've shot Reddington. He goes through footage forwarded to him by Cooper. It's a secure server. There are dozens of angles from the day he's shot, it makes Ressler think about how nothing anyone does is truly secret. There's always businesses and Bodegas and phone data. He shudders, pushing it down in his mind. There are social media videos of the incident as well. He has facial recognition running in the background trying to identify anyone that could've done it. It's mostly petty crimes so he decides to turn it off and focus on identifying different angles of entry by where the bullet pierced Reddington. He winces when he sees the video, it's no wonder they had to induce a coma. The bullet tears through his side and the force of another bullet in his shoulder is enough to throw him back onto the ground. People go to duck for cover and Dembe pulls a gun out, shooting in the direction (presumably) of the shooter, shielding the man with his own body.</p><p>He checks the footage from the angle behind them, finding that that the bullet from the gut had an exit wound, but the one in the shoulder didn't. He sways in his chair, trying to focus on the task at hand. He tries to zoom but it's futile, the picture is degraded too much. He asks Cooper if he has access to the cameras in the building with the shooter. Cooper only responds by sending the video footage. He realizes it's a stupid question but hey it gets him where he needs to be.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn't take him very long to get a clear picture of the suspect after that and he wonders why they even wanted him in the first place.</p><p>He decides to ask his supervisor if he can take the rest of the day off. If Sampson can drop work and go on vacation, he can drop it to go home for an afternoon. Once he's approved he pulls his phone, his credit cards and his wallet out of his desk and puts them in his pocket. He takes the letter with him too. Before he leaves he makes sure to gently set the green sticky notes on the top of his desk, before turning off the light and leaving.</p><p> </p><p>It hasn't been very long by the time he gets back home, he still would've had three hours on his shift, but it feels like he's back from walking to Egypt. He grabs his mail and shoves the door to the fridge open and grabbing five slices of cheese. He eats them quickly, still chewing when he haphazardly opens the thick envelope, it's some kind of USPS bubble mailer. It's got his address and no return.</p><p>The neat calligraphy like type is marred by the fact that it's been damp sometime recently. The dampness doesn't get through to the hefty stack of papers that falls out onto the counter top.</p><p> </p><p>He recognizes some of the photos that fall out. They're David's.</p><p>His eyebrows crinkle in confusion.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>I don't feel it's safe anymore. I wiped your inquiry history, but there was something wrong. Like someone was watching. Someone copied all of the logs around the inquiries, including them. Got to play it safe. Here are copies of my notes. Just in case either packet doesn't make it safely to you. I've separated them. One is here, mailed direct. So you'll have a greater chance of finding it if this gets intercepted, I won't say much. </b>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Except. You'll find it with Julian. </b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <b>-Sampson. </b></span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He pulls the smaller folded envelope out of his pocket. He reads and rereads it. “Visit your special place.”</p><p>He thinks about Julian's old cabin first, but David never would've known about it, so he thinks harder. It clicks into place when he rereads the second letter. Simply “You'll find it with Julian.”</p><p> </p><p>He nearly vomits. It's right when he realizes that the first letter. Technical second. Isn't real. He studies it.</p><p>He took a class once in college, Forensic Handwriting Analysis. It was an interesting class for the most part. It tells him within a glance that the letters <em>were</em> written by the same person, but one was written under duress, in a hurry, or under some kind of pressure. It could also mean it was written in a moving car or bus, but he rules that out.</p><p>It seems improbable.</p><p> </p><p>He pores through the files. There are dates, files and photos with various names of people that are either dead or speculated to be working with Reddington.</p><p> </p><p>He grabs Julian's gun from the vent in the bathroom. He'd never wanted to see it again, but since the service weapon was locked in a store room somewhere until his re-certification went through. <strike>Bureaucracy, red tape, all that bullshit. </strike></p><p> </p><p>It's probably the only thing tangible he has left of Julian, and he has to tell himself to focus. He grabs a holster and shoves the gun in, clasping the snap.</p><p> </p><p>He wants to do something, to say something. Confront Reddington. The only thing is he doesn't know if he'll survive it.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He's passing an electronics store on his way to the graveyard when he sees the news that a man has jumped off the J Edgar Hoover building roof. He stops for a second to take it in when he recognizes the face of the man who had warned him about the danger. He feels nauseous. He has to clench his eyes shut and breathe through it to keep from vomiting. He takes a moment of silence to mourn the man, even though he hadn't known him very well.</p><p> </p><p>He decides to postpone his confrontation.</p><p> </p><p>He goes to the cemetery. It feels wrong. He hasn't visited them since Julian died. He didn't have a gift. He throws himself down on his knees, pressing his forehead on the cold gravestone.</p><p>“I'm so sorry Jules. I could've... I could've done something differently. Anything.” He sniffs, tears dripping onto the ground under his knees. He blinks the tears away, his blurry vision clearing slightly when he catches sight of an envelope wedge under the green lawn roll.</p><p>He was right to visit the cemetery then. He almost opens it but he can't quite bring himself to, not yet. He pulls himself closer to Julian's gravestone, running his fingers softly against the engraving. A sob wracks his whole body and he crumbles, hands still rested on the grave but his torso closer to the ground. He wants to scream, cry and break something, but he can't. He can't bring himself to move.</p><p> </p><p>He eventually falls to the ground, finding sleep with the envelope tucked in his sleeve and tears drying on his face, skull throbbing.</p><p> </p><p>He wakes up to a groundskeeper pressing into his side with a rake. He only relents when Ressler pokes his head out from under his arm. The groundskeepers mustache moves but he doesn't make a sound, just raises one of his eyebrows and turning to leave.</p><p>“Thought you were one of those homeless teenagers.”</p><p>Ressler sits up gets up onto a stands up, cracking various joints before shoving the envelope into the back of his pants.</p><p> </p><p>He winces at the brightness of the sun, realizing it shouldn't be that vivid. He checks his watch and darts into a sprint, then a full on run, cursing the whole way. The groundskeeper chuckles deeply, fixing the grass around the plot.</p><p>He grabs the envelope from his waistband and gains speed. He knows it doesn't matter because he's already late but part of him doesn't want to be later than he has to. It would be another citation and he hates those.</p><p> </p><p>He gets to his building at 9:41 and takes the elevator, which means he actually gets to work at 9:48, with all the waiting.</p><p>He finds his supervisor in his office when he finally gets there. He's sorting the pens in the cup holder. A present from Julian that reads 'You're Too Close' it was a mug he never used but couldn't bear to donate or throw out after he died.</p><p>“You're late.” His voice is flat. “Where were you?” Still flat.</p><p> </p><p>“I was..” He falters, falling into a chair near his door. He decides the truth is his best option.</p><p>“I was visiting Julian.” The supervisor's face flashes with remorse. He suddenly would like to be anywhere else. He stands up, putting the last pen back in the cup. “Just.. don't let it happen again, alright?”</p><p>It hits Ressler that the look on his face wasn't remorse, it was trepidation. He didn't want to feel the discomfort of Ressler's loss.</p><p>Ressler picks up the cup, chucking the neatly arranged pens in the trashcan next to his desk. He sets the cup back on the desk.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He looks through the new files. He doesn't really find anything new.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Cooper visits him again. Tells him they caught the man who shot Reddington. He finds he can't summon up the usual pride at solving a case.</p><p>He just nods.</p><p>Cooper also informs him that he's gotten a promotion. As soon as the man leaves he turns his monitor on and searches through the CCTV server. He puts in an external drive that his friend Aram gave him. They'd worked cases together. Aram had said that if he ever truly (He stressed it. A real emergency.) needed it he could plug it in and put a site or program in it and it would give him full access. He figured finding out if the man he was now working with killed one of his coworkers and murdered a whole bunch of other people was important.</p><p> </p><p>There was a drop off, the computer seemed to stall. The mouse freezes as he slowly moves it around. Suddenly the computer lights up blue, fading to black and opening itself up again. He types in the passphrase Aram gave him and accesses the cameras in the general vicinity of the roof.</p><p>He feels like he's wading through the videos. Trying to scrub through, but also not to miss anything.</p><p> </p><p>It takes him ten minutes of bad angles to find one from a cell tower nearest to the Hoover building. He heaves his breath as he sees his coworker-former coworker, he has to remind himself- leaning on one of the guard railings, smoking a cigarette and reading a magazine. Time stamp: Day before yesterday, before Reddington called him in.</p><p>He wonders if he could've prevented it.</p><p>Ressler couldn't have imagined the man doing either thing without seeing it firsthand. To be fair though, he didn't know the man very well, even if they worked together for six years and the man was at Julian's funeral.</p><p>He thinks about it and realizes he didn't know the man, at all.</p><p>The video time stamp tells him five minutes before Reddington comes onto the roof. From what he can gather, Sampson thought he was being caught for smoking, Reddington waves him down, probably tells him he's not hear for that. He's sitting on a crate near the roof door. Reddington's hair is longer, it's how it was when he first “met” him.</p><p>He's not very good at reading lips but he can read between the lines.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you know who I am?” Reddington chuckles. He can hear it in his head. There's no audio but the voice is stuck in his head.</p><p>“You look familiar.” David's eyes widen as he realizes who he's talking to. Ressler wants to turn it off, but he needs to know. He wants to tell himself it ends some other way, but he can't lie to himself.</p><p> </p><p>Sampson says his name. He falls into the concrete barrier behind him, arms flying out to hold on to it. He's not at any risk of falling off.</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm. Yes. I was told you were looking for me. You and him.”</p><p>He can see the confusion and fear on the man's face as he mouths the word 'him'. His eyes widen as says something that Ressler can't quite catch it, he tries to go back but it's still too quick for him to catch.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes. Him, I'd like to know what you know. I could say please?” He pulls a gun from his waistband and rests it on his knee, a lingering threat. His face is impartial. As if nothing important is happening.</p><p> </p><p>“But it's always easier this way.” Sampson tries to back up farther but he has nowhere to go. His hands run the length the concrete barrier.</p><p>Reddington doesn't move. “I'd like to know what you know about me? About my work for the government? What he knows about me?”</p><p>Sampson still has that fear but now it's accompanied by anger. “Fuck no. You don't work for the government. There's no way. It's..” He stops. He shakes his head. Reddington looks amused.</p><p>“Usually when I have my gun pointed at someone they don't disagree with me.” He tilts his head, raises his eyebrow and rolling his tongue in his mouth, it all seems very unconcerned to him.</p><p>“I'm not telling you anything.”</p><p> </p><p>Reddington purses his lips. “Valiant. Misguided, but valiant.”</p><p> </p><p>He stands up putting his gun on the level with David. David looks around, desperately seeking some escape from the man. He pulls himself up with the steel pipes onto the concrete sill, turning around and throwing himself off.</p><p>Ressler hits the space bar on his keyboard and puts his head in his hands.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He finds he needs a smoke.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
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    <p>He finds himself back at the Post Office. He'd cleaned out his office and told his supervisor, in vague terms, that he'd been promoted. His supervisor had scoffed at that saying that if anyone deserved a promotion it was him not Ressler. Ressler just stands there, with a bankers box of his most important possessions under his arm.</p><p>The supervisor hangs up the phone on Cooper and excuses Ressler with a stunned look on his face. “Two losses then.”</p><p> </p><p>He's sitting in the break room, staring blankly. He doesn't know what to do with the information he's found. On one hand, Reddington has killed people, done bad things. On the the other, so has he.</p><p> </p><p>On one hand he didn't kill Sampson. On the other, he did threaten him, and he was probably why Sampson jumped.</p><p>He goes over all the different facets until someone walks in. He doesn't look up, just stops. Freezes, hoping the person won't try to talk to him. Until he hears the voice.</p><p> </p><p>“They said you were being brought on.” He darts his eyes to meet the man. Aram Mojtabai.</p><p>“They told me I couldn't talk to you until you were introduced formally to Reddington and cleared by Cooper.”</p><p>He's as cheery as Ressler remembers, but what should've been annoying felt like a nice balance. <strike>Unlike Nurse Mable</strike></p><p>It was comforting.</p><p> </p><p>“I think I got too excited, they didn't want me to blow it.”</p><p> </p><p>He sits across from him at the table. Still smiling.</p><p> </p><p>“Agh it's nice to see a familiar face. I spent fourteen years with the NSA and they move me here and there's nobody.”</p><p> </p><p>He lowers his voice.</p><p>“Glad you're here. Might want to ditch the modified RAT though if you still have it. I know you used it. It needs to be destroyed now, okay? I gave one to Reddington. Needs to be modified again with different code so it can't be tracked next time.” He nods his head towards Ressler, as if to punctuate his point. Ressler stands up, taking the flash drive out of his pocket, shedding it from it's plastic casing.</p><p> </p><p>“What would it take to destroy it.”</p><p>Aram laughs. Not at him per se but like he's remembering something, or thinking of something.</p><p>“Well a lot of things, liquid, pressure, blunt force.” Ressler goes to the sink pulling a white mug of of the counter. He plops the drive in, running water in it before pouring it out and looking under the sink. He utters praise to no one in particular when he finds some lye and some caustic drain cleaner. He pours them together and it fizzles.</p><p>He hear Aram behind him. “That'll do the trick. Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“They can be traced after you use them. I should've told you but I didn't know when I gave it to you. It was my first prototype. I didn't know until..” He trails off, eyes glazing.</p><p>Ressler's curious. He doesn't want to poke the hive, but he can't help but ask. “What happened?”He takes a spoon off of the strainer and stirs it, as Aram starts to speak he almost accidentally drinks it, stopping himself quickly. Too used to the feeling of drinking tea or coffee when listening to people talk.</p><p> </p><p>Aram doesn't seem to notice. He's looking at his hands. He's wringing them together as if he's gotten glue on them.</p><p>“I've been working for Mr. Reddington for two years.” His lips morph into a tight smile and Ressler sits down. Still stirring his melting flashdrive. He can see the mixture corroding the plastic and tarnishing the metal.</p><p> </p><p>“I started working with this wonderful, beautiful woman, uh named Samar. In the beginning there was another woman. A friend of mine Meera who died. Samar erm agent Navabi was sent to provide support and eventually replaced her. We got close.” He falters and doesn't meet Donald's eyes.</p><p>“You were together. You and this Samar? No shame in it. A bit unprofessional but..” He swirls the contents of the cup. Not continuing the thought.</p><p>“You? I never would have guessed you would do something like,”He leaves it dangling.</p><p>“Yeah. You remember Julian? He was my... love towards the end. Wish I'd realized sooner.”</p><p>“Julian. Huh?”</p><p>He's trying not to break. “Continue what you were saying. I derailed it.”</p><p>“You're fine. It's probably the first time I'm talking about it with someone other than Mr. Reddington. Honestly.”</p><p>He takes a deep breath.</p><p>“She was kidnapped. I hacked the cam feeds where they were holding her, trying to help her get out, but.” Ressler notices a tear fall from the man's eye onto the table. He doesn't say anything, although he knows he should.</p><p>“They weeded out my hack, and they killed her. Right on the feed. Shot in the head. Mr. Reddington had to drag me away. I was, screaming. Crying.”</p><p>“Julian's dead too.” He doesn't know what else to say to tell Aram that he gets it. It's choked and he himself feels like it's almost too much to talk about it.</p><p>“He died in front of me too. I couldn't do anything but scream, hoping that they'd stop. That the man would hear me and something human would emerge in them. He'd return him to me. It would be fine. He cut his throat and let him bleed all over the glass. I was stuck on the other side. He escaped and there was nobody to drag me away. I screamed myself hoarse.”</p><p>“I didn't know that. I'm sorry. For your loss.”</p><p>Ressler shrugs. “Nothing you could've done, for what it's worth, I'm sorry for yours. Maybe there wasn't anything anyone could've done. For Julian or Samar.” He looks at his caustic cocktail and sees that the plastic has mostly melted and the metal is oxidizing. He doesn't quite know what to do with it. Or himself for that matter. He stands up. Putting his hand on Aram's shoulder briefly before walking out.</p><p>“I just know Mr. Reddington will help you too. It may not be dragging you away, but he always helps his allies.” His voice is small, sniffling, but not weak.</p><p> </p><p>No one that heard that voice could mistake it for weak. It was the tone of someone who'd lost someone and survived it.</p><p>He heard it in himself sometimes.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He was still carrying the cup when he bumps into Reddington. Reddington is holding a heavy wooden box. It's ornate with a quite large golden closure, he's holding it under his arm with his other hand grasping at it for leverage.</p><p>Reddington doesn't look so surprised to see him. He greets him jovially. “Donald.” Since when are they on a first name basis. He decides they aren't, responding quickly. “Reddington.” His voice is clipped.</p><p> </p><p>“I have something for you. A gift of sorts. Spent all night trying to acquire it. I know you know about Sampson.”</p><p>“You killed him.” His tone is still short. He doesn't really believe the words he's saying, but he needs to hear it from him. If he lies. Well Ressler doesn't know what he'll do.</p><p>“You and I both know that's untrue. I know you've seen the video, Aram's software informed us of a breach this morning. Now come along, I have something to show you and we can't have prying eyes. Even if this is a Classified government black site.”</p><p>He leads him to the loading bay area, the one he'd been caught smoking in previously. He's still lugging the box until he finally finds his way to a table in the corner, a cheap pop leg table, usually reserved for card games and garages. He gently sets the box down on the table before pressing his hand to the lid, turning his head to look at Ressler. “Donald, I want you to know that I do understand how you feel.”</p><p>He continues.</p><p>"There is nothing that can take the pain away, but eventually, you will find a way to live with it. There will be nightmares. Every day, when you wake up, it will be the first thing you think about. Until one day... It will be the second thing."</p><p> </p><p>He lifts the lid to the box, revealing the pale, blood let face of the man who killed his Julian. He color seemingly drained from his own face as he glances down into the box.</p><p>“You acquired this?” He looks at Reddington in his periphery.</p><p>“Hmm yes. I heard of what he did to you, and your paramour. I felt some retribution needed to be done. As a gesture of faith and goodwill. I know it'll hurt for a long time but eventually you'll overcome it. You'll be able to think of your once fond memories happily again. Trust me.”</p><p>He looks back down into the box, he gasps jaggedly, pouring the cup with the flash drive and the lye in it onto the man's face, the now blue corrosive seeping into the man's sunken eye sockets. He drops the cup into the box and shuts it.</p><p> </p><p>He may not trust Reddington fully yet, but he knows that maybe someday he will.</p><p>He knows one thing for sure though. He's right about loss. Perhaps it's because he knows it just as well as Ressler does, if not better.</p><p>He finds he's partially glad he let that nurse drag him in that day.</p><p> </p><p>He still hopes he never has to talk to her again though.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Please please comment what you think of the story. Comments mean a lot to me.</p>
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